Means To An End
by Mardy Lass
Summary: SEASON 4 SPOILERS up to 4x14. My vision of The End. Includes, inevitably, character death. Grew into a 3-shot: I simply couldn’t bear just a single chapter. Rated T for language and t'issues. AU! Honest, it's an AU!
1. A Bang And A Whimper

**Author's Note:**

_It all started with a bad dream. A really bad dream. I've seen a possible future and it's silver, blue and gold. And I had to write it down._

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**ONE: A Bang And A Whimper**

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The demon snarled and struggled. One hand squeezed at Dean's throat, one held his wrist from his own. Dean's eyes bulged. He spluttered desperately. He squeezed his own hand on the demon's throat as hard as he could. He knew it was not helping.

There was a scraping noise to his left. _Sam! Get up! Get me the knife!_ his mind screamed. He wanted desperately to shout. He had no air. Purple dots were appearing before his eyes.

And then the demon hesitated. It registered alarm. It jerked.

_Knifed him! About time!_

But there was no light, no horrible death throes. The demon kept hold of him, shivering as if flicking something from his shoulders. But he jerked again. And then he coughed.

Horrible realisation dawned on Dean. But he was distracted; the demon's grip was loose. The elder Winchester tumbled to the floor, furiously panting some air back. He didn't want to turn his head, didn't want to look at Sam. But he did.

And there he was, as Dean had feared: one hand outstretched, concentration on his dark face. Dean looked back at the demon as he slid himself backwards across the boards to get some distance from it.

It coughed and hacked, desperately trying to hold onto its host. But it gradually came billowing out, forced out of the man by Sam's force of will.

Dean slid back a little further. He glanced back, saw the knife on the floor. He swept his repulsed eyes back to the demon. He slid back further. His fingers brushed the hilt of the knife. He snatched it up and scrambled to his feet. Still fighting for air himself, he lunged at the demon, knife ready.

"No!" Sam shouted angrily. He lifted a finger on his free hand. Just one.

Dean was lifted off his feet. The whole side of him slammed into the wooden panelling of the wall. Hard. He slid down and landed in a pained heap, jacket lapels and amulets in his face.

_He did it to me. He friggin' did it to me_, he realised. _He threw me across the room with his mind: he finally did it to me._

He rolled and got to his knees slowly, swallowing hard and grabbing at the wall to help himself to his feet. He heard the nasty sounds of the demon struggling still to regain its host.

_He's torturing it. He's doing this on purpose_, Dean observed. He didn't want to look. But he did. "Sam," he said clearly. But his tone was a warning.

"Shut up, Dean," Sam hissed.

"Sam," he said again, much more firmly.

"I said shut up!"

"_Sam!_" Dean raged. "Just kill it!"

"I don't have to listen to you any more! I can _do_ this!" he growled.

His intentions divided, Sam was struggling to hold onto the demon now. His face was red, his eyes squeezed almost shut so as to show only the small black pupils.

Dean hefted the knife in his hand. He marched forward, past his brother. He brought the knife up. His left hand pushed at Sam's arm, lowering it slightly. He was already launching himself at the demon as he felt himself yanked back from behind.

"Dean!" Sam accused. "You never listen, do you? You've _never_ listened to me!"

Dean couldn't stop his backward momentum. His arms tried to pinwheel. It did no good.

"I've had enough of you and your _orders_!" Sam snarled.

Dean flew back faster and faster. He collided with the door frame. His head slammed into something hard and cold, presumably the floor.

He grunted with effort as he pushed his hands under him. Something grabbed at his shoulder and began to haul him up.

It was Sam.

But when Dean looked at him, he knew it wasn't Sam.

"_You_ no longer tell _me_ what to do," Sam seethed in his face. His grip left Dean's shoulder. It fastened on his throat.

Dean put his hands up quickly in horror. He grabbed at Sam's wrist. Sam's mask of rage and indignation drew back as he pushed his elder brother against the wall with one hand. Dean wrenched and struggled, but suddenly his baby brother had more strength than any normal man.

_Any normal man._

He cowered away from that thought, struggling to speak. "S-Sammy--"

"I… am _not_… Sammy," he breathed in anger. Dean began to choke, blackness closing in on his vision. He felt his feet leaving the floorboards, the weight on his throat burning pins and needles of pain into his windpipe.

Sam watched his brother's eyes bulge and roll in panic. He tutted, disgusted. He raised his left fist, drew it back.

Dean's eyes shot down and latched onto his. He saw, very clearly, Sam sneer at him.

With eyes that didn't belong to him.

And then everything went black.

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He opened an eye and looked around. He appeared to be on his side on the floor, splayed out across the bottom of the door frame, blocking the only exit. His head throbbed and his throat felt raw and bruised. It hurt to swallow.

He saw Sam's back as he crouched, touching at the floor gingerly and checking the black marks left behind by a burnt demon. He ignored the dead human on the floor next to him. He straightened again, turning with purpose to the bag on the table. He zipped it up, looking around sadly.

Then he put his hand up behind him and pulled out his Taurus handgun. He checked the load quietly.

Dean realised he knew what was coming. _I shoulda seen it. I shoulda stopped him._

He watched his brother turn around and look straight at him.

"Dean?" he asked warily. He walked over, noticing Dean's gaze squint up at him with chary disapproval. "Dean, look. We both knew it would come to this," he said easily.

"Come to whut?" he croaked, eyeing the loaded gun that Sam was cocking slowly. _Say it, then. Just say it._

"It was last week, wasn't it?" he mused quietly. "Last week when I stabbed that guy I thought was a demon. You said you had doubts, remember? And I said there was one way to make sure." He smiled slowly. It made Dean's skin crawl. "I stabbed him. He wasn't a demon. You were… upset. I didn't give a rat's ass. Remember? You just looked at me weird. And you've never looked at me properly since." He paused, his face turning sad. "Why can't you look at me like you used to, Dean?" he asked, but it appeared to be more for his own ears than anyone else's.

_Cos after you stabbed that guy and he obviously wasn't a demon - I looked at you and all I saw was Yellow Eyes. What you said, how you said it - it was more him than you_. Dean just sniffed at him, keeping his mouth firmly shut. _That's whut I thought - till I knew it was you. New Sam. Half you, half somethin' else. That's whut I don't wanna look at._

Sam crouched in front of him. "I shouldn't have stopped you, Dean. I shouldn't have thrown you like that. I shouldn't have… I've done a lot of things I shouldn't have. I'm sorry," he said quietly, and Dean did actually see genuine regret in his eyes.

His eyes. That, just for a tiny moment, looked less hazel-green and more a light, shiny reflective yellow. Dean wanted to blame it on his smack to the head. But he knew better.

"But… times have changed," Sam said suddenly, with grim confidence. "I've outgrown you. It's not your fault - you're still the same human you always were, despite everything." Sam bit his lip in reluctance. "But I'm not. I'm probably not even all human any more. You've seen it. I've seen it."

He studied his older brother's face for a long moment, but Dean flicked his gaze to the side, unable to meet his searing look of repulsion.

"So whut happens now?" he dared.

"You're hoping I'm going to leave you behind? To carry on working for these angels, do their bidding, the whole good-boy soldier thing?" he accused. "You really are as stupid as you look," he snapped, disgusted. "As for me, I'm getting out of all this - before Uriel decides to try and desiccate me. _Let_ him try." Now he looked damning, churlish. "You kept me stomped into line for so many years, man. How did you ever let these angels turn you into their lapdog?"

"I'm not lettin' you leave, Sam," he managed.

"Why? Cos I'll go Dark Side if you're not watching me?" he smiled. It was not a nice one. "Like you said, Dean, it's already gone too far. I'm more Dark Side than you can pull back. I'm not _meant_ to be pulled back. Kinda like you were _meant_ to sell your soul for me, like you were _meant_ to go to Hell, like you were _meant_ to get yanked out. They're right - everything happens for a reason. I don't know what that reason is yet, but I know it's all about you and me. It's all starting to come together, and the more I think about it, the more I can see why we--" He stopped himself. "Anyway, you can't keep me from the Dark Side - you're too late. You know why?" he added, suddenly angry. "Cos you never had the balls just to kill me. Just to set me free."

"Maybe I wasn't _meant_ to do it just yet," Dean managed sarcastically.

Sam actually paused, thinking this through. Then he looked down at him again, his face a study in accusation and resentment.

"You should have done it by now, Dean. You should have. But you never did what Dad told you to do - ironic, considering how you followed _every other one_ of his orders."

"Sammy--"

"It's _Sam_!" he shouted. He got to his feet quickly, taking one step back and staring with hate at the brother on the floor. "It's _Sam_! The younger one, the stronger one, the _useful_ one, the _clever_ one! And yeah - the compassionate one. I'm going to help you one more time, Dean," he snapped. "You want out of this whole gig the same as I do. You want to be free of angels who threaten to drop-kick you back in the Bad Fire. Well here we go - I'm giving you your resolution. Now you'll find out whether you go back or you've served your time down there. It's the least I could do for my bullying, spineless, idiot older brother."

He took one more step back and lifted the gun. He aimed it carefully at his brother's head. "Well?" he asked suddenly.

"Well _whut_?" Dean snapped with sudden fire.

"Any last words? And please, take the time to actually think about it and come up with something original," he smiled maliciously. "I'd hate to have to tell Bobby you begged like a girl."

Dean's face set into a grim affirmation of anger, one Sam had seen many times before. But he hadn't seen the strangely quiet warning behind the eyes before. Never directed at him. It made him wonder for just a second.

"How about," Dean said slowly, putting his hands to the floorboards and pushing himself to his knees. "How about 'see you in Hell'?" he offered on a dangerous growl, climbing to his feet.

"Oh, that's a good one," Sam smiled. It was not a happy one. "And what do we do in Hell, Dean? Share the carving knife? Enjoy fighting with each other for eternity?"

"You can waste your time like that if you want," Dean warned.

Sam's evil intent hesitated. Something about the green fire in Dean's eyes, wholly directed at him, was making him ponder dark thoughts.

"Well, as much as I'd love to stand here and trade pleasantries, I do have places to be, Dark Side crap to practise." He squared his shoulders and sniffed, aiming again. He concentrated on a fresh aim over Dean's heart.

"You know where I'll be," Dean breathed. "And you won't be far behind."

"Shut up," Sam managed, squinting to concentrate only on his aim.

"Whut's the matter, you can't look at me while you do it?" Dean accused.

Sam's gaze shifted up and caught the look on Dean's face. "You think I'll look at you and fold like some little girl?" he sneered.

"No. I want you to look into my eyes and tell me I give two shits about you sending me back to the Pit."

Sam hesitated. "What?"

"Go on," Dean breathed, "oh, and remember to tell me how much I wasted my time looking out for you. How I pretended to be the brave one, the good one trying to help you. Tell me how I could never understand you being stuck with demon blood. Tell me how I'm such a _huge_ disappointment since I ain't the stand-up guy you thought I was, once push came to shove down there. Do it."

Sam stared into the jade orbs of rage and accusation. Dean stared back, unafraid and more perfectly angry than Sam had ever seen.

"You're gonna shoot me? Really? Then do it. What does it matter? What does it matter if by some miracle I don't die?" Dean snarled. "This world would be over for me anyway. Cos I let you live, I let you turn into the one thing you never were, I let it all slide to shit cos I didn't do the one important thing Dad told me."

"Right," Sam nodded, lifting the gun more accurately. "It's all your fault."

"Yeah, it's all my fault," Dean growled. "All of it. So go ahead, send me back. Do it."

Sam felt his mouth excessively dry. His lips too. He swallowed, sending a thoughtful tongue across them slowly as he and Dean stared at each other. He felt his finger tightening on the trigger, felt it ready to go as he looked at Dean, really looked at him.

He saw Dean. He saw Dean lifting him up to grab cookie jars. He saw Dean reaching down and picking him up from the icy pavement. He saw Dean barging into a group of baying, bullying twelve years olds and scattering them with a word and a fist. He saw him refusing to shoot his own possessed brother. He saw him arguing back at midnight, telling him he was going to Hell and it was for everyone's own good, himself be damned.

"_Do it!_" Dean raged.

Sam let his gun-hand fall lamely. "Looks like you get your miracle. I can't do it. Not today. But there will come a day when…" He stopped himself, and Dean had never seen him look more piteous. But the flash of old Sam submarined just as abruptly as it had appeared. "Looks like you get to spend Hell on Earth," he said pleasantly.

"I'll contain my excitement," Dean snapped.

"But I'm going now," he said quietly. "I'm going to carry on my stellar work - killing demons the easy way until I get to Lilith. And you're not going to stop me," he said firmly. "I'd like to shoot you, I really would. But I just can't get past the years and years of patient self-sacrifice you went through for me. With all that on your scorecard and your name in Anna's sweetheart book you'd probably end up in Heaven this time. And then when I finally get down there to the Bad Fire, I'd be lonely without a big cat to kick," he sneered.

"My heart bleeds," came the malicious sarcasm.

"Can't have you stopping me though," Sam added thoughtfully.

He shifted the gun and fired. Dean felt something smash into him with the speed and force of an ice hockey stick. His left leg registered pain and weakness. It gave abruptly. He collapsed on the floor, gasping in pain and shock.

"That should do it," Sam mused faintly, tilting his head to look at him. "At least it's wiped that look off your face."

He turned back to pick up his bag. He pulled the safety on the gun, looked at it for a long moment, and then unzipped the bag. He slid it inside, rolled a t-shirt around it to stop any noise as it touched any other harder items, and zipped the bag up again. He patted it slowly.

"So this is it then," he said to himself sadly. "The end of the Winchesters. Y'know, if I'd known it was gonna end up like this, I wouldn't have bothered with Stanford."

He remembered the door was behind his wounded brother. He sighed, his shoulders sagging, knowing he'd have to look at his brother one last time. Sam turned around.

Dean was right behind him. On his feet. His face flushed with pain and anger.

"Aw, you want a goodbye hug?" Sam cooed maliciously.

Dean just put a hand on his right arm securely. Sam looked at him, puzzled.

"I want you to know," Dean said slowly, with difficulty, and Sam tilted his head, confused. "I want you to know I ain't sorry."

His other hand came up. So did the demon knife. Dean put his weight behind it.

He plunged it straight into Sam's chest.

He staggered, more from shock than pain. He felt Dean's grip try to hold him but he was too heavy. He slid over backwards, struggling for breath as he hit the floor. He put a hand up blindly as he sagged back to sit against the side of the bed.

Dean crouched on his one good knee in pain, putting his hand out and pushing him back against the bed gently. Sam's hand lifted again and Dean looked at it.

"Oh, so _now_ we're brothers again? _Now_ I'm supposed to be there for you?" he protested with scorn. "I always _was_, man. I _always_ was." He watched Sam's pained face turn toward him, the patent look of terror, of anguish written so deeply. Dean lifted a hand, wiping at his nose casually. "And believe it or not, this is me, being here for you. I can't stop you, I can't turn you away from this. We both knew there was only one way this was ever gonna go, and I can't let that happen. Not to you."

Sam blinked, a tiny tear escaping the side of his eye as he stared at Dean in surprise. Dean's expression of resolute reason melted as Sam's eyes sagged at the corners. The bridge of his nose pinched up, his large green-brown eyes blinked in a tacit plea. Dean suddenly saw Sam for what he once was, and what he was again: the three year old wanting his missing father, the six year old needing a story read to him to sleep, the ten year old needing his brother's faster fists against bullies, the gangly sixteen year old needing reassurance that Dad was coming home, the stubborn young man needing help making sense of his girlfriend's death.

"I could never stay mad at you though, right?" Dean sighed in anguish. "You know something?" he added, putting his palm out and taking Sam's firmly. "I woulda given _anything_ to change places with you, Sammy. Anything. Cos I hated being the oldest. I _hated_ having to look out for you. But I could never stop doing it, could never trust anyone else with the job. It was like… like Dad put you in my arms and you were so tiny and I just kinda… I heard this voice saying: '_Here, see this small kid? He's gonna look up to you so you'd better be worth it_'. But I never was," he managed, knowing his eyes were filling with salty water.

Sam shook his head slightly, his breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps. Dean squeezed his hand.

"So… I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to set you free. I'm only sorry it took so long," he urged, his voice beginning to thicken. He swallowed, seeing Sam's breathing slow. "I _am_ sorry. I am sorry I wasn't the brother you wanted. I'm sorry I failed you. And Dad. And Mom," he added gruffly.

Sam's head wobbled from side to side. He pulled on Dean's hand. Dean leaned the side of his face close to Sam's quickly.

"Me," Sam whispered. "All me."

"Yeah?" Dean managed, pulling his head back to look at him. He smiled, but it made water break from his eye. "I'll remember you said that when we're fighting in Hell."

"De-" he gasped. Dean bent closer again. "Best brother," Sam whispered. "Forgive - 'give you. And thank - thank--"

His words stopped. Dean pulled his head back and found Sam's lifeless eyes staring past his shoulder. He searched his face for an eternity.

Eventually he let go of Sam's hand. He shifted his bleeding leg to sit, pulling Sam's shoulder into him. He held onto him tightly, closing his eyes and resting his head against the side of his baby brother's in silence.

It was some time before he lifted his head. He raised a hand, wiping his face dry. He sniffed and looked round the room, not really wanting to move any time soon.

So he didn't.

He sat still and held his dead brother tightly in his arms. He knew that while the blood spilling from Sam had trickled to a stop, it was still leaking urgently from his own leg. He simply bent all his attention to letting the world go by.

There was a noise but he couldn't raise his eyes. He looked at the floorboards, expecting the motel owner or perhaps even police.

What he saw were two scuffed black shoes. And a beige mac.

"Leave us alone," he grunted.

Castiel crouched down, assessing Dean's face carefully. "What did you do?" he asked, either awed or close to speechless, Dean couldn't tell.

"I saved him. That was my job from the moment I carried him out of a burning home, wasn't it?" he said sourly. "Now go."

"Dean. I'm really sorr--"

"_Go!_" Dean raged. "_I don't want you here! Go!_"

Castiel got to his feet slowly, backing away. He paused. "What will you do now?" he asked quietly, his head bowed.

Dean's head lolled back on his neck before he looked over at the angel. "You're gonna do me a favour," he said clearly.

"What favour?" Castiel asked slowly, looking at him.

"You're gonna make sure Sam doesn't go down there. You're gonna check he gets in _up there_. With your crowd."

"I can't--"

"_Yes you can!_ You _owe_ me, you sanctimonious bastard! He saved people! He _saved_ people! _You make it happen!_"

"Or what?" Castiel ventured curiously. He didn't take to the vengeful emerald stare.

"Or I'll hunt every one of you sorry-ass angels down till one of you does it for me."

"That would make you the enemy. And we'll already be busy with Lilith in your absence."

"_Do I look like I care!_" Dean bellowed.

Castiel threw his hands out in apparent resignation. "You're upset. In a few days, when you hear yourself--"

"I ain't gonna be here in a few days," Dean interrupted harshly.

"Why?"

Dean turned his head and looked at him again. "Cos you're gonna do me one more favour."

"And that is?"

"Throw me back in the Pit."

Castiel stared at him. He walked back over, crouching next to him and making sure he stared right into his soul.

"Why?" he breathed, lost.

"Cos I killed my brother."

Castiel opened his mouth but Dean looked down at Sam abruptly.

"Oh God… I _killed_ him," he whispered. Fresh tears rolled down his cheeks and he leaned his head against the unruly brown hair. "I'm sorry, Sammy, I'm so sorry."

Castiel got to his feet, backing away. He didn't stop until he was by the far wall. He watched the hot, angry tears drip from Dean's face to the jacket on his baby brother. He heard the harshness of someone trying to stem the sounds of pain, of pure emotional torture. The angel couldn't stop himself from staring.

"What do you think?" said a quiet voice from behind him. He didn't dare turn.

"Respectfully, I think he's given enough," Castiel breathed. "This is the limit."

"He certainly has," came the reply. Castiel felt a hand on his shoulder. "It is time."

"It is time," Castiel agreed quietly, hanging his head.

"The Endgame is upon us."

"I understand," he whispered. He looked up at the two men in the room, one starting to cool, the other heating up with remorse and anguish.

"Offer it to him. Tell him it's the only thing that will ease his suffering."

"In my humble opinion, he won't take it," Castiel observed.

"It is the final move. You must offer it to him." Another pat on his shoulder. "He must take it, or all of this was for nothing."

The touch was gone, as if it had never been.

Castiel stepped forward. He walked over to the pair, crouching again. "Dean?" he asked quietly. The only surviving Winchester looked up. The red eyes and face awash with misery and loathing caught the angel by surprise. "Dean. I can help you. Sam will not go to Hell."

"You sure?" he demanded roughly. "If I find out you're lying--"

"I'm an angel. I've done many things, but have you ever known me to lie?"

Dean raised a hand, dashing water from his face. "So toss me back already. I'm not waiting around here."

"There's a problem," he said slowly.

"Toss me back."

"Listen to me, Dean. If you go back down there who knows what you'll become. And who knows what would happen if you got out. But we do know there'd be no-one to stop you. Not with Sam gone."

"So turn me to dust then. That's your thing, right?"

"Dean." Castiel looked at Sam slowly, putting his hand up and touching at his lifeless shoulder gently. "That's not how it works."

"Get your hand off him."

Castiel lifted his hand, looking at Dean squarely. "How do you feel, Dean? Right now?"

Dean's mouth opened but nothing came out. He turned his head and looked back at Sam forlornly. Castiel nodded to himself.

"I can make it all go away, Dean. I can make it so you never have to feel this again."

It was silent for a long minute.

"How?" he whispered.

"Believe me when I say I wish I could, but I can't lift you up and make you an angel, even though that would be the best for all concerned."

"Whut?" Dean blurted, shocked. "An angel? Me?"

"You'd make an exemplary warrior for God," Castiel smiled. Dean looked at him and saw it was a sad smile, a shrewd smile, a weary smile. Castiel leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice to barely above a knowing whisper. "You never asked how _I_ got started, did you?"

Dean's eyes ranged over his face for a long moment, and Castiel saw the first flicker of clarity, the first tiny sign that the human in front of him abruptly realised that the world he knew - even encompassing demons and angels - was a great deal smaller and narrower than he had ever thought possible.

"But…" Dean wet parched lips quickly. "But you can't. There's absolutely no reason in the world why the big guy - if he even exists - would let that happen after everything I've done, dead _or_ alive."

Castiel's gaze slid sideways slightly, a small, uncomfortable sigh released as he did so. "As with your world, Dean, everything is negotiable. And… others have put in a good word for you," he allowed, still not meeting his gaze.

"Anna?"

"She was… very… _insistent_ we help you."

"But you're screwed. You can't make me an angel, you can't make me forget, and you can't make me not feel anything. You're scared to throw me back in the Pit and you're scared to leave me down here," he managed hoarsely. He paused. "Looks like turning me to dust is the way to go."

"We don't destroy souls, Dean. That's wrong," he tutted.

"Right now I don't think there _is_ a right or wrong. Everything's right. From a certain point of view."

Castiel shook his head. "I said we couldn't make you an angel. It wasn't meant to be," he mused quietly, making Dean turn his head and stare at him. Castiel noticed, looking back at him with sad innocence. "But I didn't say we couldn't help you. Put it this way - do you want to see Sam again?"

"I--." He paused, looking down at the dead form in his arms. "I--."

"The only way to see him, ever again, the only way to stop feeling like this, ever again, is to take my offer. Take my offer for you _and_ him."

"Just whut is it?" But he knew he was part caring.

"You'll see," Castiel smiled.

"Wait," Dean snapped. "Bobby. Whut about Bobby? He's gonna lose it when he finds us both gone this time."

"I know," Castiel sighed. "I know. But I'll look out for him."

"Well then… looks like I'm all outta excuses," Dean said lamely.

He knew he was using a poor attempt at a smile he used to know, a tiny shrug he used to use every day, an effort to keep his back straight just as he had done so many hundreds of times after so many hundreds of exhausting hunts. He suddenly saw how these few things, so familiar and so indicative of his very soul, would very soon cease to be. He had a moment to wonder if he really wanted to throw everything into the hands of a waiting angel. He looked down at Sam in his arms and closed his eyes hastily.

"Do what you do, man. I really don't want to be here," he breathed with guilty conviction, pain spreading his voice thickly.

Castiel nodded, getting to his feet. He looked down at Sam and Dean, so broken and so small, where two larger-than-life warriors had once been.

"If I could feel, I'd be crushed that you two have come to this," he offered.

Dean opened his eyes, looking up at him slowly. "Thanks," he managed. "C'mon, get it over with already."

Castiel sighed and looked round at the room as if it, too, would suddenly cease to be. He looked back down at the Winchesters for the last time.

"Hold tight to your brother, Dean," he advised. "You two still have work to do."

He spread his wings.

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_**What work would this be? Wait for part two: all is revealed.**_

_**P.S.: I'm sorry - I'm so sorry. Don't shoot me just yet, though.**_

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	2. What You Leave Behind

_**Author's Note:**_

_Ok, so this was supposed to be a two-shot, but it just won't fit, goddamn it. As of tonight it's going into a two-shot plus epilogue. Sorry for being a pain in the arse. The epilogue will be up in a few days (from 17/02/2009). And, I have to say, it's a real doozy._

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**TWO:**

**What You Leave Behind**

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Bobby heard the banging and dried his hands, dropping the towel to the kitchen table and walking through to the front door. He opened it to find the boys stood looking at him.

"Hey," he smiled, stepping back. "Unexpected, but hey," he added.

"You're telling me," Sam grinned.

He walked in and toward the front room, patting Bobby's shoulder as he passed him. Bobby paused, wondering why the touch had felt strange. He looked back at the door and saw Dean lift a tired boot to follow him. Bobby noticed the wariness on his face and immediately knew they needed something.

"You boys come for some help then?" he smiled. "Been awful quiet for a while - was getting kinda worried about you two."

"Ah, no, we're good," Sam said cheerfully. "Actually? We're _very_ good."

Bobby looked at him, then back at Dean. He still appeared more apprehensive than pleased to see him. Bobby turned a critical eye on Sam, noticing his boyish smile was decidedly more chipper than he had seen it in a very, very long time.

"Ok, what gives?" he asked seriously. "Either one o' you just got Lilith, or the end of the world already happened while I was sleepin'."

"Not the world," Dean said quietly. Bobby looked at him, watched him bite at the side of his lip for a moment. "Just us two," he finished heavily.

"What you talking about?" Bobby dared.

Unbidden, his mind flashed back to the oddness of Sam's touch. He knew his face was starting to register horror, knew his breath had stopped dead in his throat. He reached out and touched Dean's shirt over his shoulder, half-expecting to go right through him. It was solid - but there was something strange about the material under his fingers. He squeezed it, confused.

"What did you _do_?" he demanded.

Dean didn't answer, pensive under the older man's gaze.

Bobby shook his shoulder slightly, fear causing his fingers to clamp harder on the eldest Winchester. He stared into Dean's eyes, the green orbs suddenly looking tortured, fearful. Broken.

Sam ambled over, his hands in his pockets, drawing Bobby's attention from Dean's cloud of worry to his own aura of calm.

"Dean won. Everything's settled," he said easily.

"Won what? What's settled?" Bobby demanded. He looked back at Dean. "What did you do, boy?"

Dean let his eyes range around the floor before he looked up guiltily. "You're not gonna like this, but… ah… You won't be seeing us again."

Bobby stumbled back one, making his hand drop from Dean's shoulder hastily. "You two ain't real, are you? What is this, a dream or something?"

"We're real enough. Until we're done saying goodbye," Sam allowed.

"What happened? Someone tell me what the hell happened!"

"Sit down," Sam advised. Bobby backed away to an armchair, landing heavily. "Dean… Dean settled everything. Then he bullied Castiel into doing what he wanted. No change there, then," Sam smiled apologetically. Bobby looked over at Dean, but his gaze was on his boots. Bobby looked back at the taller brother.

"You two are dead?"

"As doornails," Sam confirmed, quietly cheerful. "I'm sorry, Bobby. It all came to a head. The epic battle between Good and Evil kicked off and we sorted it out between us - as we were _meant_ to, all along. That was all that was needed - not the entire universe of people, not huge armies of opposing sides, just… Just two brothers and the test of what they were prepared to do. Not for any side, but for each other." He paused, letting his smile widen. "And I have to say, I've never been this glad. I'm just so… _relieved_ that it's finally all over. And now… here we are."

Bobby felt all too clearly his stomach dropping out. "What happens now?" he whispered. He cleared his throat to get some semblance of normality back in his tone. "I mean… you two are both _dead_-dead?"

"_He's_ dead," Dean put in quietly. "Technically I'm more like a 'lifted up before actually dying' thing, like some Enid--"

"--Enoch," Sam offered politely.

"--Enoch dude," Dean amended, without skipping a beat. "We ain't gone. You won't see our faces again. But you might see _us_."

"I don't understand," Bobby managed. "Why? How?"

"Bobby," Sam said slowly, and the soothing tones worked on the older man the same way they always had. "You have to know that… Dean saved me. And then Castiel saved _him_. So… we're going now. For good, this time."

"Well… dammit, boys! Are you gonna explain this? I'm supposed to just lose you two the same as I lost everyone else?"

"Not everyone," Dean said knowingly.

Bobby turned to stare at him, trying to commit his face to memory, to actually see what was there, to remember the real features.

"We gotta go." Dean paused, and it seemed to Bobby as if he really did not want to have to speak. "We just ah… we just came to say goodbye," Dean added apologetically.

And there it was - the small, rueful smile, the timid eyebrows, the guilty eyes, the look of contrition he had seen in the elder Winchester a thousand times. Bobby turned his head to look at Sam quickly.

A matching apologetic look. The expression of wanting everything to be alright, even though he knew it could never be. Suddenly he looked so young again.

"And to thank you, of course. You saved our asses so many times. We can't tell you how glad we are that… well, that you were Dad's friend and that… and that you've always been around, since we were those annoying little kids," the youngest Winchester teased. "Life wouldn't have been the same without you," he added with a warm smile that came from his expressive, soul-rending eyes. "_Thanks_, Bobby."

Bobby couldn't tear his eyes from the young man, standing so tall and so relaxed. He looked at Dean, realising the older brother was fighting with himself over something.

"I'm sorry." The hoarse, painful whisper was forced from Dean as if it burned. Bobby felt his throat tighten at the guilt in the young eyes, so old and world-weary. "I'm sorry, Bobby. I had to do it."

Bobby's mouth opened but he had no words, no breath, nowhere to start. Dean put a hand up aimlessly, stretching it toward the older Singer. He let it drop abruptly, but then took a step and reached out again, a much bolder hand catching at Bobby's shoulder. He straightened as he took a calming breath, nodding to him resolutely.

"Thanks. For everything," he managed, sounding much more like his old self.

Bobby stared, afraid to look away, afraid to lose the moment, afraid to lose sight of the pair of them.

He blinked.

He opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling of his front room and gasping in breath. He found himself sat in an armchair and stood quickly, looking around.

"Dean!" he called immediately. "Dean! Where are you, boy? Sam!" He looked around the front room in a panic. "Boys! Where are you!"

He moved to the doorway quickly. Something caught his eye and he looked back at the armchair. A slightly crumpled piece of paper was floating impossibly slowly to the floor. He snatched it up, still looking around.

"Boys!" he roared.

There was no answer. He slowed his breathing, trying to think instead of simply panic, and realised he must have been asleep. The door wasn't standing open, there were no signs of anyone else having been in the house.

"I wus dreamin'," he heaved, wiping his face. "Holy crap." He shook his head, blowing out a long sigh. "Well damn me. What a bastard of a nightmare."

He remembered he had something in his hand and looked down at the piece of paper. He instantly recognised Dean's semi-spidery writing and something made his skin prickle all over as he read it.

'_Corner of your yard, parked behind the gate. Got a full tank of gas. She's yours. No-one else would be worthy. Thanks_.'

There was a gap, and then Sam's more confident strokes took over further down:

'_We'll come in through the window_.'

Bobby gripped the note tightly, going to the large window and pulling back the net curtains. He saw the yard, but nothing more. He ran round to the front door and wrenched it open, jogging outside to look around carefully.

He searched high and low. He checked around the wrecks and breakers, the worn dirt track, the outside of the house, every single window or shiny surface he could find. There was nothing.

He retreated to the safety of his front room. He was still holding the note firmly and he made himself put it on the table under the window. He turned, looked around the room, and it trickled into his reasoning that he now had to get used to life in a world that no longer had any Winchesters.

"It wasn't a dream. It wasn't a dream," he breathed. "Why couldn't it have been a nightmare?" he pleaded. "Why them?"

He felt the world crashing down around him, felt the fabric of everything he knew unravelling faster and faster. His head spun, his ears buzzed, he knew he was staggering to the cabinet. He leaned his hands on it hastily, keeping his balance.

"A world without any Winchesters…" he breathed. His voice, the words, the concept was ugly and harsh, raking at his fraying nerves with neither mercy nor attention to fairness. "A world without any Winchesters? It's gonna be a lot smaller, _that's_ for damn sure." He turned and opened the cabinet, pulling out a new bottle of whisky. "God_damm_it, boys," he whispered to himself in anguish. He sighed, shaking his head for a long moment, not wanting it sink in but having no choice. "You should never outlive your family."

He carried the bottle to the large armchair, getting comfortable and twisting off the cap. He took a long sip, the water welling in his eyes less to do with its acidic fire than his own grief.

He sat.

He drank.

He tried to recall every moment he had spent with the boys who had never been his own, but had been more a part of him than anyone else in his entire life.

Eventually, he slept.

.

* * *

.

He opened his eyes hoping he had had a vicious nightmare brought on by alcohol. But when he blinked at the pre-dawn light and the room exactly as he had left it, he knew it had not been a dream.

He got up slowly, cursing his way to the table under the window. He found the crumpled note and picked it up, reading it over and over. He traced a worn, used finger over the writing before letting it fall back to the wooden surface.

He turned and went to the cabinet. He bent slowly and opened the door, withdrawing a large bottle. He went back to his chair and twisted off the cap, letting himself fall back into the comfortable place.

As he tipped the bottle up he noticed the first rays of strong sun were coming through the windows. He snorted in derision, seeing them burn through the thin net curtains and hit the carpet by his feet. He lifted the bottle up again, hissing as it burnt all the way down. He set the bottle down on the arm of the chair and let his uncaring gaze settle on the patterns on the carpet.

Two long streams of light were hitting the carpet next to each other, and for some obscure reason he didn't fully understand, he watched them.

One was longer, narrower. It followed the shorter, wider one as the world turned and sent them across the carpet inch by inch. As Bobby watched, he realised the shorter one hit all the patches that made it seem lighter. The longer one seemed to run over the same areas and appear almost shaded, slightly darker. They moved slowly, never far from each other, until they reached the side of the room.

The sunlight was now all over the room, making it appear a much brighter place than he knew it to be. He also knew that the two rays of sun would be lost in the much larger sea of light on his far wall.

He tipped the whisky back and took a long, helpful sip. When he looked again, he paused.

The two rays of light were on the far wall. They were against the backdrop of the bright light against the paint, and yet there they were, boldly defying physics by still being visible, solid, definable, definite lengths of sunlight. One was taller, narrower. One was shorter, wider. Both were dead opposite Bobby's chair.

He raised the whisky at them.

"Mornin' boys," he smiled. He watched the rays of light, letting himself feel slightly more comfortable with his discomfort.

He heard his front door open, heard footsteps approach the doorway. He looked round quickly, hoping against hope.

The feet came closer and closer. A face appeared round the doorjamb, looking in cautiously.

"Hello, Bobby," Castiel said quietly. Bobby just stared at the beige mac, the rumpled suit, the lazy tie, the soulful look of sympathy.

Castiel walked into the room with a silent tread. He made it to the sofa and sat with a slowness born of respect, or perhaps regret. He sat forwards, his hands clasped together, his elbows on his knees. He stared at the two bright beams of light on the wall, as if trying to work them out. Or remember them in detail.

"Hello yourself," Bobby managed. He eyed him, feeling something different about the angel. Perhaps it was the morning light, perhaps it was the surreal situation, but some hunter's instinct rang a harsh bell in Bobby's head, alerting him that some tiny, tiny detail was amiss. "You in on this?" he accused.

"I facilitated," Castiel admitted, with customary slowness. He turned his head and looked at him with blatant curiosity. "Dean was worried. About you. I've come to reassure you."

"Reassure me how?" he snapped. "I know they're both dead."

"Dead… would be the short explanation," Castiel nodded, a painfully acute hangdog expression of regret sticking steadfastly to his apparently caring frame. "But… I arranged a few things."

Bobby felt the nasty remnants of alcohol abuse pounding at his head, threatening to mangle his thoughts. He concentrated. "Like?"

"They're together. Sometimes. And they're still busy."

"Talk straight," Bobby demanded. "I ain't in the mood for your shit, even if you are an angel."

"That's just it," Castiel said sadly, turning on the sofa to look at Bobby square-on. "I'm not an angel any more."

Bobby just stared. "Wha--." He cleared his throat, tried again: "What the hell?"

"Dean was half right; I didn't just owe _him_, I owed them both. There was no getting around it - everything eventually fell into place, everything aligned itself just as it was supposed to, just at the right moment. There was simply no choice - it _was_ meant to be, after all," he added with a small, deprecating shrug. "My gradual disaffection for my position, their slow decent into mutiny and distrust - it was all there for a reason…" He paused, looking up at Bobby with wide, blue eyes that suddenly seemed much brighter than Bobby remembered them to be. "I traded. I traded my Grace for their positions. Positions they'll have for eternity - my father will see to that," he allowed. His face didn't smile, but his eyes did.

"You're _human_ now?" Bobby gasped.

"As you are," he shrugged.

Bobby simply stared, and Castiel realised he was being appraised. He shifted over and held his hand out, palm up.

"There is a pulse. You can check, if you like."

Bobby just stared. Before he knew what he had done, his hand was out and pressing into the warm wrist. He felt the bouncing heartbeat and snatched his hand away quickly.

"But… Dean _stabbed_ you. We _shot_ you. How in the hell is that body still alive? And where's the poor bastard that lent it to you in the first place?" he protested.

"We swapped places," Castiel nodded slowly. "Planes. Places. Planes _and_ places," he corrected thoughtfully. "And we did manage to repair the damage done to Dean's corporeal body by hellhounds - _before_ I re-attached his soul, if you remember. Fixing a few salt-shot-wounds and one hole made by a knife was easy in comparison."

There was a long silence, a rather uncomfortable affair on Bobby's part.

"Which brings me to a personal problem," Castiel added apologetically. "I am beholden to Dean; I must look out for you. And… I find myself without employment or purpose, in a world I have not lived for several millennia."

Bobby's mouth dropped open. "You're asking me if I need a sidekick? Tell me why I shouldn't _kick your ass_ after what you done to them!"

"Go ahead, if it'll make you feel better," Castiel shrugged. "But you have to understand, I did it for them. I did it because they deserved it. I put things right." He paused, leaning slightly closer, his elbows back on his knees, his face serious and earnest in a way that almost reminded the older man of a certain young Winchester. "I put things _right_."

"What the _hell_ does that mean?"

Castiel's long-suffering, worn features lightened slightly as he looked back at the older hunter.

"It means… Everything is as it should be. What was, is now again." An abrupt, cheerful smile took over his face. "And will always be."

Bobby took a deep breath. "For the last time," he stated clearly, "_just what the hell does that mean_?"

.

.

* * *

.

**The title comes from Pericles' infamous quote:** "_What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone monuments, but what is woven into the lives of others_."

**Part three coming soon.**

.


	3. EPILOGUE: The Song Remains The Same

**Author's Note:**

_My apologies for breaking this two-shot into three parts. If I hadn't, part two would have been insufferably long. And I needed the new title._

_I give you: The Last Part._

.

* * *

.

**EPILOGUE:**

**The Song Remains The Same**

.

Sam leaned on the wooden post in the fence. He looked up and let the radiant sun beat down upon him, warming him all over. He heard the birds singing and chirping, the tiny insects working away in the swaying grass behind him. He waited patiently, feeling the sun hot on his single t-shirt and jeans. He bent down and plucked a length of grass, studying it with a fond smile. He stuck it in his mouth and looked back up at the perfect blue sky, sliding his hands into his front pockets. He waited.

Presently he heard sounds far off to his left. He turned his head and looked down the cart track, the dusty road made by a million feet since the dawn of Time. He saw a lone figure approaching in the distance and put his hands behind him, jumping up to sit on the cross beam of the fence.

He put his hands in his lap, looking round at the gorgeous summer's day and taking a deep breath. The sounds got louder and he grinned as he made out words.

"_Me and baby brother, used to run together - huh! I said me and baby brother, used to run together!_" came a familiar husky voice, and it made Sam chuckle in anticipation. The voice, confident in the mistaken belief that no-one else could hear it, put more effort into the continuation: "_Welcome one another, headed for the corner! Da-na na-na-na-na! Welcome one another, headed for the corner! Shiftin' on his mind is like drinking funky wine - by the river! Da-na na-na-na-na - huh! Trippin' on his mind is like drinking funky wine - by the river!_"

Sam simply sat on the wooden bar, his hands patiently in his lap, grinning like a schoolboy. He hummed along with the familiar tune, trying to stay mostly in key. He looked over to see the trudging figure much more visible.

"_I remember the days - we used to fight together! Da-na na-na-na-na - huh! I remember the days, yeah, we used to fight together! Me and baby brother used to run together - huh! I said me and baby brother used to run together! Hang on, baby brother, oh! They call it law and order - hey, hey, hey!_" Dean sang as he walked, one hand up, holding onto something large he was carrying on his left shoulder. "_Come back baby brother_--"

He looked up and realised Sam was laughing at him. He stopped singing abruptly and looked at his feet to contain his good mood. His dusty, heavy boots scuffed through the dry track as he neared his destination. Finally he stopped next to Sam, lifting the large cylinder down from the shoulder of the beige and dark checked shirt. He set it to the grassy edge of the track with care, wiping his hands together and squinting at his brother in the bright sunlight.

"Hey Sammy," he grinned.

He chuckled. "Hey Dean."

He slid off the fence and enveloped his brother with grateful, squeezing arms. Far from protesting, Dean grabbed him in a bear hug that nearly excised the breath from him. There was a mutual, short comfortable chuckle before they pushed each other back, studying faces.

"Good year?" Sam asked eagerly.

"Not so bad," Dean shrugged, patting at his shoulder before letting his hands drop. "Just a few trouble-makers I had to kick into submission."

"You leave their names in the book for me?"

"Of course. Oh, and when you get down there, watch out for the new fallen angel behind the desk," Dean said quickly, wagging a finger at him.

"In a good or bad way?" he grinned.

Dean rolled his eyes. "I got carpet burns, man. And that ain't funny when it's the spiky Pit carpet, know what I mean?"

Sam laughed out loud. "I guess I'll be keeping out of her way then."

"You do that. I don't want to get back down there in a year's time to find she's comparing sizes between brothers." Dean paused, then looked down at the cylinder guiltily. "Whoops," he breathed, bending down and picking it up. He turned it over and sand began to run rapidly. "Almost forgot."

"Don't think anyone's gonna notice two extra minutes," Sam said dismissively.

"Naw," Dean agreed. He looked back at his brother. "So, how was your shift up there? Any new angels this year?"

"A few. One of new guys is a real pain the ass," he said uncomfortably.

"Oh yeah? You put _his_ name in the book up there?"

"Yeah yeah - it's all done. Just make sure you read all my notes before you start the year," he nodded.

"Cool," Dean shrugged. He clapped his hands together, rubbing them as he looked around. He sighed quietly. "I never miss this place till I'm standin' in it," he grinned, eyeing the Kansas fields around them.

"I know what you mean, man." Sam looked around with happiness. Then his face fell slightly. "Hey, ah… I was thinking about what you said. Last year."

"Oh yeah? Whut was that?" Dean asked, interested.

"Well… Since you mentioned it, I've been thinking. And… well, you said you didn't remember how we ended up with this gig, how we got here. Right?"

"Yeah! You know whut? It's been killin' me to think that I remember all the hunts, all the arguments, all the demons and crap, but… but the last thing I remember when we were alive was… well, hunts and stuff. And that's it," Dean said, confused. "It's like… it's like there's this big gap from hunting whatever we were hunting and us winding up here."

"Ye-ah," Sam havered. "I can't remember either. I can't even get straight in my head the last hunt we were on. I mean, I assume we were after some creature that took us both out." He watched his brother uncomfortably.

"Yeah…" Dean's face scrunched up in hard thought for a second. "Hey… d'you think we went out like Butch and Sundance? Or like horror movie extras, like, y'know, Ash's cabin friends? Or Bonnie and Clyde - you'd be Bonnie Parker, of course," he smiled. Sam just rolled his eyes. "Or was it something really nasty like… just falling asleep and not waking up?" he dared, distaste on his face.

Sam took a deep breath, shaking his head as he let it out. "We couldn't have been that lucky," he observed.

Dean's look of discomfort cleared abruptly. "As long as it looked cool, I don't really care," he admitted. "An' seeing as neither one of us remembers, it can't be important, right?"

"Right," Sam smiled. _Now I feel better better about not remembering too. And something tells me we're better off not knowing_. "But…"

"Whut now, Sammy?"

"Well… it's all… It's kinda weird, y'know? Don't you get the feeling sometimes that… well, that maybe all the hunts and stuff we did, all the demonic crap we went through, the demon blood, the angels, all of that - that maybe we needed it to handle all this stuff we're doing now… like it was just leading up to this?"

Dean stared at him for a long moment with a suspicious amount of understanding. "Like… like everything was just some huge plan to get us ready for _this_ gig, with the experience and - and - and - and the hunting stuff behind us, and the demon-on-angel fights and--"

"Cos they needed two for this job? Two sides of the same coin who think the same but tackle it in different ways? Two halves of the same blood? Two souls so similar, unable to leave it to someone else cos they'd worry others would mess it up? To spend eternity bringing order to chaos, only getting a limited time together as a reward?" Sam dared.

"You think that's _us_?" Dean dared, a look of horror getting ready to spread over his face.

They stared at each other for a long moment in silence, the entire argument running through their heads.

"_Nah!_" they cried together abruptly.

"You just had too much time on your hands up there this year," Dean added quickly.

"Yeah yeah - I'm sure that's it," Sam nodded with haste. He cleared his throat. They flicked their gazes at each other, then around the field quickly. There was nothing but the sounds of birds, breeze and bugs for a long moment. Then they inadvertently caught each other's worried gaze stealing a look at the other sibling.

"Ok! Awkward!" Dean blurted uncomfortably.

Sam made an effort to smile. But it was a sickly smile, a weak attempt to help carry off his brother's desperate joke. "Anyway."

"Anyway!" Dean said eagerly.

"So _you're_ sure you don't remember how we got up here, and _I'm_ sure I don't remember how we got up here, so everything's cool," he blurted quickly, squinting at him in discomfort.

"Dude, what did I say? I have no clue. But… however it happened, I hope Bobby weren't there to see it," he shivered uncomfortably. "Last thing I'd want is for him to have to scrape up our remains." He shook his head slowly.

"Yeah, but…" Sam squinted nervously.

"Whut?"

"Well… I hope we got to say goodbye - or at least thanks."

"I just hope he got ma car," Dean snorted with tacit frankness. Then his face fell slightly. "I kinda miss the old guy sometimes."

"Yeah, me too," Sam managed.

Dean gasped and snapped his fingers loudly. "Aw hey! Speaking of Bobby - I almost forgot!" he cried suddenly. "How could I forget this - I've been dying to tell you for ages! Talk about torture!"

"Well what it is?" Sam asked, amused at the enthusiasm on his brother's face. "You got an Employee Of The Month plaque for stove-piping some wannabe-Alistair?"

"Better! Sammy, you're gonna bust a gut when I tell you! You'll never _guess_ who wus dragged in through the front doors down there half-way through the year." An abrupt, devilish smile conquered his face as he nodded, the tip of his tongue trapped between his teeth childishly.

"Justin Timberlake?" Sam grinned. "Or no - Snuggles the fabric softener teddy bear?"

Dean slapped the back of his hand into Sam's t-shirt, suppressing a chuckle. "Get this - _Lilith_," he urged, his eyebrows waggling in delight.

"No shit?" he demanded, his face dropping in shock.

"I shit you not, man! And guess whose name was on the retrieval records?"

"No way!" he realised.

"Oh yeah - none other than our favourite Mr B. Singer. --_And_ some other dude who signed it as - are you ready for this - '_C. MacLeod_'."

"What?" Sam stared, knowing his face was screwed up in confusion but unable to help it.

"When I checked the small print, it was written out as 'Christian MacLeod', a big-ass line under the 'Mac'."

"You don't think that's--"

"Well if you were an angel with a dirty mac whut name would _you_ choose?" he laughed.

Sam shook his head in disbelief, folding his arms and sagging into the fence cross-beam with a great deal of relief and satisfaction. "So I guess he's looking out for Bobby. That's… good of him."

"Angel," Dean pointed out.

"Right. Only, I'm guessing he's not now though."

"Well, no, alright, seeing as how we haven't bumped into him once up here - or down there - since we been doing this gig. But who else did he know on Earth anyway? Bobby was his only choice to stick close to."

"True," Sam mused.

Dean looked pensive. "You think he'll be alright?"

Sam looked at him, reading the discomfort all to easily. "Cas will be--. Sorry, _Christian_ will be ok with Bobby. I mean, it's Bobby," he smiled.

"No, I _meant_ Bobby," Dean admitted. "Like… just him down there, by himself, y'know?"

"Well hey, he's got Christian now. They must be getting along if they worked together to bring Lilith in," Sam admitted quietly. "But them rounding her up - knew _one_ of us would finally get the bitch," he said suddenly, a wicked gleam in his eye. "You got her on the Rack yet?"

"Sammy!" Dean scolded, his face dark with indignation and outrage. "That would be against all kindsa rules, guidelines, all them codes of fair practice an' whatever! You seriously think I'd leave her strapped to that thing while the souls of a thousand people she's killed, maimed or mangled are just waitin' for me to leave the room?" he demanded hotly.

Sam bit his lip. "Ah - well no," he said edgily. "Sorry, dude."

"It's just wrong, it's just evil, it's just so not what we're here to do," Dean protested.

"Ok! Alright!"

"It was just for an afternoon," Dean admitted with a small shrug.

Sam gasped and looked at him, staring with a rainbow concoction of surprise, delight, outrage and awe on his face. "You _did_?"

"I got her in the room, I strapped her in, I told her to stop screaming and spitting in my face. I told her we weren't into torture for torture's sake," the elder Winchester stated clearly.

"And then?"

"I then I stepped out for a coffee," Dean shrugged innocently, making Sam laugh out loud. "Oh, by the way? The canteen's moved like three blocks over, you have to walk pretty far if you don't want that slimy crap the machines dole out."

"I'll try to remember that," Sam chuckled. "And where is she now?"

"Solitary. There were a few chains in there with her name on 'em," he nodded brightly.

Sam's head tipped right back as he laughed at the sky for a long moment. He heard Dean chuckling evilly and just enjoyed the sound of them both amused at the same time, and on such a beautiful sunny afternoon in Kansas. Then a dark thought crossed his mind.

"You ah… you haven't come across anyone else we know down there, have you?" he asked slowly.

Dean looked at him. "Nope. Who you talkin' about?"

"Ruby," he replied with a knowing eyebrow lift. Dean lifted a hand, scratching at his head as he mulled something over.

"I haven't seen her," he mused. "In fact, _no-one_ has. I mean, when souls get dragged back in we head-count 'em and everything, but she's never one of them. And when we get 'em to tell us how many are free or who they met Topside, they never mention her. Either she's got some bad-ass Where's Wally skills or someone's ganked her and she's never comin' back."

Sam's eyes went a little round. "You think Cas--"

"I'm thinkin' Bobby!" Dean protested. "Can't imagine he'd be in a good mood if we were both out of the picture - however it happened. And if there was any chance at all it had something to do with that slippery bitch, you can bet your ass he woulda hunted her down."

Sam nodded. "Bobby and an ex-angel," he breathed, shaking his head slowly.

"_I'd pay to see that_," they both said, then looked at each other quickly, chuckling self-consciously.

"And speakin' of who we've seen this year, I don't suppose Anna came back up there?" he asked lightly, deliberately not looking at his younger brother.

Sam made an effort to make his sympathetic sigh a very, very quiet one. "No," he said gently. "Still out on assignment. Apparently, it could be a few thousand years."

He watched his elder brother look out over the fields, nodding as if Sam had just told him tomorrow's weather. Not for the first time, he wondered just what exactly was going through Dean's head.

"Ah… Everything seems kinda settled then," he offered brightly.

"Yeah," Dean said clearly, nodding more decisively and looking at Sam. "Yeah, it does. Just kinda pissed we didn't find Ruby ourselves," Dean added. "And Lilith. Man, was I really keen on finding _her_."

"You know what, Dean? Maybe we were never meant to find her after all. Maybe _we_ were meant to set _those two_ up so they could do what they were always _supposed_ to."

Dean made a strangled noise in his throat, surprising his younger brother. "Sam, please, for the love of gun oil, enough with the '_meant to_'s and '_destinies_' and '_meaning_' crap, ok? Trying to work it out gives me a headache, and to be honest, the less I work out the better." He sniffed. "And I ain't talking shop for the one day we got off neither," he added suddenly. "Whut we doin'?"

"Oh! You wanted _me_ to organise something?" Sam realised. "I thought it was your turn."

"Dude, I did it last year," Dean reminded him pointedly. "And every year we been switching Bad Fire and Heavenly shifts like this. And _last_ year you said you'd be doing _this_ year's holiday idea. Well?"

Sam's face crumpled in guilt. "Oh. Yeah. I did say that, didn't I?" he managed.

Dean tutted and looked down at the large hourglass. "Well, time's a-wasting," he sighed. "We got the day off and nuthin' to do. And while I am lookin' forward to my shift up there and that little angel who makes the _best_ pie, I hope this day never ends."

Sam's face turned sad and he opened his mouth.

But Dean held up an index finger suddenly. Sam smiled again, waiting. Dean felt in his back pocket with his other hand, rolling his crafty eyes up and grinning at his younger brother.

It was the grin of a boy who had just discovered his tiny brother could walk - and he had seen it before their father. It was the grin of a boy who had stolen a comic from the store without incident because it was his little brother's favourite, it was the grin that had held as he'd read it for him. It was the grin of a teenager who had shushed his younger brother, grabbing up a box of _Durex_ and climbing out of a bedroom window, to the distant giggle of a girl's voice in the night. It was the grin of a young man pinned to the carpet, having broken into his brother's place at Stanford. It was the grin of a young man who knew that he and his brother had just destroyed a Yellow Eyed Demon in a cemetery. It was the grin of a young man who had taken out a grown man with only a television remote. It was the grin of a man who had cosied up to the damsel in distress threatened by a shapeshifter and consequently got his happy ending. It was the grin of a part-time angel, part-time demon supervisor who had remembered to bring a new, still-sealed pack of playing cards.

With pictures of naked women on them.

Sam laughed out loud. "What we playin' for?" he asked cheerfully, picking up the hourglass and following his older brother over the fence and into the field with glee.

"Uh… Who gets to prank that new-boy angel you don't like. _First_."

"Done," Sam agreed, plonking the hourglass on the ground beside them.

Dean was already making a depression in an area where the swaying grass was shorter, but as Sam sat down, he noticed Dean throw his legs out as straight as they would lie in front of him. He watched, confused, as Dean opened his legs as wide as they would go, sweeping them closed and then open a few times, chuckling to himself.

"Dude," Sam said with apprehensive discomfort.

Dean stopped and looked at him innocently. "Whut?"

Sam waved a single finger at his boots, his eyebrows and face displaying more unease and worry than a whole schoolyard of children waiting for a dental check-up.

But Dean held his hands up in innocence. "I'm bein' a _corn angel_," he grinned cheekily.

Sam snorted with amusement for five seconds before he dragged in a breath and laughed out loud. Dean watched him, warmed in places something as merely physical as the outside sun could never reach at the sound of his brother's innocent happiness filling the air. He began to laugh too, and suddenly it was as if all the hard work, all the toil and anguish, the arguments and family drama of the entire Winchester clan had never happened.

"Wish I could be here tomorrow to see some random guy discover this pattern in the field and take a photo for _The Fortean Times_," Dean laughed. He shook his head and crossed his legs in a wide approximation of comfort. He pulled the plastic wrapper off the cards, tucking it in the top pocket of his beige and black checked shirt carefully.

Sam let his laughter subside and wiped an eye, sighing with leftover amusement. He watched his brother handle the cards.

"Dude, you're gonna burn," he observed, gesturing to Dean's bare forearms and then head under the strong sun.

"Am not."

"You always have."

"Sammy, I been in the Pit keeping demons in line for a year. If I was gonna burn, I think I woulda done it by now."

"I'm just sayin', is all."

"Well you said. Now lemme deal."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"But you're so gonna burn in this su--"

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

"Quit it, Sammy."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Ok, Dean."

"Ok.

"But when you're all red as beets, I'm not gonna be there to switch on the air-co--"

"I am _not_ gonna burn!"

"Right. Fine. Yeah. You are not going to burn."

"Thank you!"

"Much."

"Sam, what are you, five?"

"Alright!"

"Well alright."

"Dean, I'm just trying to he--"

"You're tryin' my patience is whut you're doin'!"

"You're an ass."

Dean dealt the cards, huffing slightly to himself. It was silent until the cards were ready. He swept his hands over the pile closest to him, gathering them together.

"Bitch," he mumbled.

Sam picked up his cards, fanning them out and looking at his big brother over the top.

"_Jerk_."

.

**FIN**

.

* * *

.

**_End Notes: _**

The song is of course '_Me And Baby Brother_' by War. It was playing on the iPod as I fell asleep one night. I had a horrible dream of the knife in Sam's chest, the two beams of sunlight in front of Bobby, the song as sung by Dean walking cheerfully through a sunny Kansas field. I woke up at four a.m. (_is that my magic time or is that my magic time?_) and couldn't sleep. I hit shuffle on the iPod and out of 1023 songs, '_Why Can't We Be Friends?_' (again by War) came up. I thought about my dream. And then I got up and wrote it all out.

**Thanks yous (Oscar stylee):**

To Apple Inc., for bringing me iPod Bob and iPhone Dax, and aiding and abetting my already skewed sense of Right and Wrong.

To Stolichnaya, for their skill in the making and marketing of vodka.

To War for their songs '_Me And Baby Brother_' and '_Why Can't We Be Friends?_'

To Billy Squier for his still entirely effing excellent album '_Don't Say No_'.

To Led Zeppelin for (among others) '_The Song Remains The Same_'.

To T.S Eliot for his poem '_The Hollow Men_' and the line '_This is the way the world ends; not with a bang, but with a whimper_'.

To Pericles for his attributed quote '_What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone monuments, but what is woven into the lives of others_.'

To Dylan Thomas for his poem '_Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night_', for the accursed lines '_And you, my father, there on the sad height. Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light_.'

To each and every reader, no matter how they came to be on any one of the three chapters. _You're my demographic,_ as Debi Newberry says.

I promise I shall never kill The Boys again: I might possibly maybe kinda have had something in the general vicinity of the moist bit of my eye (that could not possibly have resembled salt water in any way) when I wrote it. But I'm sure my eyes were just sweating.

--And this IS an AU, right? Right? **RIGHT?**


End file.
